It was early morning on an especially wet winter day. Renea left for work, kissing Peter sweetly on her way out. Greg came in from the guest house a few minutes later to find Peter seated at the kitchen table, his chin propped on one hand as he stared blankly at nothing in particular. He missed hanging out with Vickey and the other HoA women and was considering a proposal to bring all of his friends together to do something fun, but couldn’t think of anything that everyone would enjoy.

“Mind if I take some coffee?” Greg asked, shaking Peter from his brainstorming.

“What?” he asked, blinking rapidly as he pulled himself back to the present. “Oh. Of course I don’t. Help yourself.”

“Thanks,” Greg grunted. “You have anything going on today?”

“Not really,” Peter said, swirling the last sip of his coffee around in the mug. “I was thinking about going on a run here in a bit. You want to come?”

Greg’s lip curled, brows furrowed. “A run?”

“Yeah. It’s like walking but you do it way faster. It’s good for your cardiovascular health.”

Peter could tell by the disgust on Greg’s face that he did not want to go on a run with him. And then he watched the big man’s expression change into something resembling hesitant consideration.

“After that volleyball tournament I thought about exercising more often. But I was thinking more along the lines of lifting weights or flipping tires. Running just to run feels… boring.”

Peter looked at Greg flat faced. “Change your clothes. Let’s do this.”

No less than 35 minutes later, Greg returned from the guest house. Peter was wearing a pair of skin tight black leggings and one of his many graphic t-shirts. Greg wore a pair of black sweatpants and a black v-neck t, but no shoes. Peter eyed Greg’s thick hairy feet questioningly.

“I don’t have running shoes,” Greg explained. “It’ll be fine.”

Peter thought about it for a moment, and then shrugged. Why would Greg have running shoes? The pair went through a short series of stretches, guided by Peter of course, and then exited the Mayhew residence with Omacatl riding on Peter’s shoulders. He mentally expressed his worry to the god cat that, when he started running, she’d have to hold on tight. Which would hurt. She hopped down and followed behind them as Peter and Greg walked down the drive to the sidewalk.

Lips downturned, brows drawing together with concern, Peter stopped when he noticed a small child across the street. He was soaked through from the heavy rain and looked as though he’d dressed himself: oversized red rain boots, no jacket, a Superman cape, and a pink beanie that was too large to belong to the small child. And he was sobbing hysterically.

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“Fuck,” Greg said under his breath. “You’re going to help him. Aren’t you?”

Peter looked at Greg in disgust. “There are only two possible things we could do in this situation, Greg. Help him, or be giant buttholes.”

Peter crossed the street, Greg grumbling to himself as he followed.

“Hey bud. Do you need help?” Peter asked.

The small child nodded. There was snot all over his nose and mouth from crying and being out in the rain.

“Not to worry. We’ll get you home in no time,” Peter told him with his most inviting smile.

He held out a hand for the boy, but he did not take it. Instead, he stepped closer to Peter with both hands up in the universal language of small children indicating he would like to be picked up. Peter hoisted the boy up and he wrapped his arms around Peter’s neck, shaking slightly as he continued to sob. There was now snot on Peter’s shirt, he was sure.

“I’m Peter. What’s your name?”

“Angel,” the boy said shakily.

“Do you know how to get home?” Peter asked. He was sure the boy did not, otherwise he wouldn’t be crying on the sidewalk outside Peter’s house. But it was somewhere to start.

The boy looked at him uncomprehendingly.

“Hablas Ingles?” Peter asked, taking a shot in the dark.

Angel shook his head.

“No problemo,” Peter said, smiling. “Hablo un poco de Espanol.”

Peter, Greg, and Omacatl spent the next hour or so following Angel’s tentative directions consisting of a pointed finger and hesitant, “esta aqui,” before relenting to call the authorities for help. Unlike the time Peter thought someone was breaking into the house at night, the police arrived within minutes.

“We haven’t had any reports of missing children,” the officer said. He was a portly man with a thick mustache, hitting the stereotype a little too hard on the head by Peter’s estimation. “So you can leave him with us and we’ll get him home as soon as we know where home is for him.”

Peter frowned, setting Angel down to stand beside him. He explained the situation in passable but hardly eloquent Spanish. Angel protested adamantly, clinging tightly to Peter’s leg. Now there was snot on his leggings, too. Peter grimaced.

“Is it alright if we stay with him until we find his family?” Peter asked. “He’s a bit shaken.”

“Fine with me,” the portly officer replied with a shrug. “I’d like to ask him a few questions. See if we can find out where he lives. Do you mind translating?”

Peter readily agreed.

“I’m out,” Greg grumbled, turning to leave without another word.

“He doesn’t like kids,” Peter explained to the policeman. “Or policemen.”

Peter relayed the officer’s questions and Angel’s answers. Omacatl curled up on Peter’s shoulders and fell asleep, purring softly. Angel remained firmly attached to Peter’s right leg. Eventually the call came in over the officer’s radio. A missing child.

It turned out the poor little guy had been walking for nearly 2 hours and covered an impressive amount of ground considering his tiny legs and oversized boots. Peter rode along at Angel’s insistence. It was Angel’s aunt, Tia Laura, that was supposed to be watching the young boy. She’d slept in and Angel thought she left without him, leading to a search that resulted in him crying on the sidewalk outside the Mayhew’s residence hours later. Peter gave her a pointed look, but held his tongue. He said his goodbye to the little man, ruffling his hair affectionately, and then got on with his morning run.

“I’m surprised,” Greg said when Peter returned. The big man was on the loveseat, unsurprisingly cleaning his guns. “I thought for sure you’d bring the kid home and raise him as your own.”

Peter winced, looking down at his snot covered athletic wear. “I only like children in small doses. They’re fun to talk to, but they’re just so… messy.”